Page 84 of Sin Like the Devil

“What was it this time?”

Ignoring him, I rifle through the cupboard tucked into the corner of the room that houses my selection of polo shirts and jeans.

“Xan. Don’t shut me out.”

“There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Has it been like this every night since we got out?” Lennox presses despite my clipped tone. “If I had known?—”

“What, Nox?” I whirl to face him. “What could you have possibly done?”

Lennox dealt with what we went through differently. His survival was out of sheer stubborn will and rage. Nothing can break a man who has already lost his whole world. He quickly bounced back once we were released.

He sighs, though it lacks his usual anger. “I should’ve burned that goddamn place to the ground when I had the chance.”

“That’s your solution to everything,” I point out.

“Do you have to be such an asshole?”

Admittedly, that was a low blow. Lennox’s history is a matter of public record. First-degree murder has a way of making the news, especially the cases involving petrol and a well-aimed match.

It’s what impressed me so much in the first place. His vengeance wasn’t quiet or dignified. He didn’t even care that he got caught. All Lennox wanted was to snuff out the life that killed his sister.

“Whatever.” He lays back down then angrily stuffs his pillow. “Go skulk around somewhere and leave me alone.”

Quickly getting dressed, I don’t spare him another look, let alone an apology. He should know better than to expect that from me. Grabbing my ID, I slip out of the bedroom and head downstairs.

It’s early enough to beat the morning rush. We’ve been taking mathematics classes together, much like we did during our last incarceration. Numbers were an easy choice for me. Simple and mind-numbing, allowing me to continue plotting in the background.

When I met Lennox, he didn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything. It was sheer chance that landed us in the same class together in Priory Lane. I’m not sure what he saw in me that made him latch on so tight.

I’m queuing for a breakfast tray when I catch the first rumblings. The handful of early risers in the line are whispering amongst themselves, and it’s easy to tune in to their low conversation.

“You hear about some riot over the weekend?”

“I heard there were fatalities.”

“Where?” someone replies.

“Blackwood, apparently. The patients escaped then practically destroyed the place on the way out. I’ve got a friend on the outside. He said it’s all over the news.”

“Are they on the run now?” another voice chimes in. “The people who escaped.”

“I guess so. This fancy private security company is investigating. Not the patients—the institute.”

“Blackwood is under investigation?”

“That’s what I hear. They’ve been doing messed-up shit to their patients.”

Sounds like Priory Lane was only the first to fall. Investigations come and go, but usually, nothing ever sticks. That’s what money can buy. Complete and utter impunity. But a riot is far harder to cover up, and it seems to have loosened a few tongues too.

“You think that’s why they’ve stepped up security here?” a female patient wonders. “If a breakout happened at Blackwood, it could happen here.”

“Yeah, dream on.”

“I’m serious!”

Tuning them back out, I stifle an eye roll. They’re all so desperate to escape. And for what? Like the outside world will offer them anything more than rejection and disgust. None of us can ever go back to our former lives.

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